


Peace

by Laululintu



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Endearments, M/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29716593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laululintu/pseuds/Laululintu
Summary: After a hunt, Geralt is restless, the potions still thick in his blood. Jaskier takes care of him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 98





	Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm new and I kind of don't know what I'm doing. Have mercy.

Geralt knows his eyes are black when he pushes open the door to the room he and Jaskier share and steps in. Restlessness twists inside him, makes his fingers twitch and his skin burn. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, still faster than usual.

Jaskier takes one look at him, and then the bard is already placing away the lute he's been idly strumming and gets up from the bed. Geralt can smell him over the stench of blood and death on himself, warm, clean skin and the faint notes of something floral. The familiarity of it is a beautiful solace, just what he needs.

"There's blood on your hands," Jaskier says without even bothering to greet him. "Wash them."

The firm instruction takes away some of the tension Geralt has been carrying. He heads to the basin, near the fireplace, washes his hands, wipes them dry on a towel.

"The swords." Jaskier's voice is calm and commanding, steady and blessedly familiar. Geralt can sense his need to say more, to babble as he always does, let his voice fill the room, but it's too early, and his bard knows that.

There will be time for words, soon enough.

Geralt unstraps the swords from his back and places to them to lean against the wall. Jaskier gives him an approving look, a tiny, gentle smile on his lips.

"Any injuries worse than bruises?"

Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier smiles at him again, a little wider now. The warmth in it eases the ache of Geralt's skin.

"Good. Face the wall. Hands braced against it."

Geralt obeys, and more tension drains out of his body. He listens to Jaskier moving, digging through his pack, then the steady footsteps coming closer before he stops, a few steps away, and stands there, unmoving.

Very slowly, Geralt looks over his shoulder at the bard. The familiar scent of his skin is stronger now, when he's this close. He smells like peace and home and comfort. Like all the things Geralt has never thought he could have.

Jaskier looks straight at him, calm blue eyes meeting his. The doubled-over belt hangs from one hand, and the threat of it is so beautiful Geralt very nearly moans.

"How many do you need?" Jaskier asks. He makes it sound so casual, so normal, and perhaps by now, it is.

Geralt swallows and turns to face the wall again. "Twenty," he gets out. Two syllables is almost too much, but he manages it.

"All right. Good boy," Jaskier tells him. The warmth in his voice makes Geralt let out a breath. "Ready?"

Geralt nods, once.

The first strike lands across his buttocks, just hard enough to sting, to make him twitch, and the next follows immediately. Left to right, right to left, six times over clothed flesh, the snap of the leather against him as steady as the beat of his own heart. Geralt keeps his eyes closed, holds still, lets the pain sink into him, cleanse him from the lingering tension. He's already getting hard, and when Jaskier steps closer and begins to undo the lacing of his trousers, he lets out a low noise at the light brush of fingers over his cock. The bard makes no comment, simply pulls the trousers and his smallclothes down to his thighs, and steps back again.

The next strike of the belt hits bare skin, and the intensity of the pain is a relief. Each hit after that is a little harder, until the fifteenth has him grunting, as well as the four following it. The twentieth is hard enough to make him cry out, and then there's the sound of the belt falling to the floor, the buckle clanking against the wood. Geralt can hear Jaskier's breathing, fast, the rapid beating of his heart like a drum in the silence of the room.

He can't see his own eyes, but he can feel the effects of the toxins almost gone.

"Do you need one before the bath?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt looks down, to his cock, steel-hard now, beading with precome at the tip. "Yes," he grounds out.

"Good boy," Jaskier says, the praise so easy, as if it costs him nothing.

Geralt waits as the bard goes to dig through his pack again, and soon after, the faint and familiar scent of chamomile meets his nose. He lets it fill his lungs, soothe the ache the potions always leave behind, and closes his eyes, waits for Jaskier's touch.

A warm hand lands on his hip, the touch gentle, close to where his arse is heated and sore. Slick fingertips slide between his buttocks, and without preamble, push inside, _deep_. Two of them, just the right stretch, and Geralt lets out a barely audible groan.

"So good," Jaskier whispers, so close his breath touches the back of Geralt's neck. The faint scent of his arousal joins the smell of chamomile. "Stay still."

Geralt stays still. Jaskier's fingers know what they are doing, curve to rub over the good spot inside him, and the pleasure spreads until Geralt is panting, until his heartbeat quickens again in his chest. His bard reads him as if he is sheet music, and the fingers begin to fuck him, hard shoves deep into his arse, fingertips hitting the sensitive nerves inside him with each thrust, and it doesn't take long before Geralt is spilling his seed, cock untouched as it jerks.

"Good," Jaskier says again. He doesn't stop, fingers Geralt without mercy, to the point of too much, and only when Geralt twitches, the fingers pull out and leave him empty. "So good."

Jaskier pats his sore arse and steps back. Geralt can hear him wiping his hand clean on a piece of fabric.

"Turn around."

Geralt does, and without word, Jaskier begins to undress him, fingers quick and light on the straps of his armour, dancing over him like birds. Geralt closes his eyes and only moves when Jaskier nudges him, raises his arms and turns this way and that, lifts his feet one by one as Jaskier takes off his boots and pulls down his trousers.

"Wait there," Jaskier orders.

Geralt opens his eyes and watches as Jaskier gathers his dirty, bloodied clothes into a hamper and places it outside their door, along with his boots. He's not sure he likes that.

"I paid for the innkeeper's daughter to take care of them," Jaskier says before he can speak. "You will have them back tomorrow, I promise. Clean and in perfect shape."

Geralt nods. He may not trust the innkeeper's daughter, but he trusts Jaskier, and that's good enough. Jaskier gives him an encouraging smile.

"Let's get the worst of that off you then," he says, gesturing towards Geralt's naked body, smeared with dirt and blood and gods know what else.

Geralt nods again, and when Jaskier inclines his head towards the large bathtub standing next to the fireplace, he walks to stand beside it.

"Good boy," Jaskier says. He picks up a bucket that's been sitting right by the fire, dips a rag in it. Geralt closes his eyes, and then Jaskier's hands are on him, the rag wiping away the mess from his skin. It feels _right_ , and he lets out a deep sigh.

"You have blood in your hair," Jaskier murmurs. "Why do you always get it in your hair, darling?"

He's not expecting an answer, Geralt knows, so he just hums. Jaskier tuts at him, and then strong hands land on his shoulders, give him a push down. Geralt kneels without a protest, leans forward as Jaskier's hand curves around the back of his neck, and he knows the bucket is right in front of him, so it's not a surprise that his head sinks into lukewarm water, not quite deep enough that his nose would submerge in it.

"That's much better," Jaskier says. His hands scrub through Geralt's hair, and despite the awkward position, it feels good. "We don't want all this blood in the bathtub, do we?"

Geralt doesn't really care that much, but that's why he has Jaskier; Jaskier cares enough for both of them, far more than Geralt can possibly ever deserve.

"Head up," Jaskier tells him, and Geralt straightens. His hair drips water all over him and the floor. "Up now, on your feet, into the tub." Jaskier's hands grip his arms, haul him to his feet before he can obey, and he opens his eyes for long enough to step over the edge of the tub. "Igni, darling," Jaskier reminds him.

Geralt casts igni on the water to heat it. It smells of Jaskier when he lowers himself down, and the scent, combined with the pain of his sore arse hitting the bottom of the tub, makes him moan.

Jaskier presses a kiss on his forehead. "Look at me for a moment, dear."

Slowly, Geralt opens his eyes again. Jaskier's bright gaze is focused on him, warm and full of emotion Geralt doesn't dare to name. A gentle thumb rubs at the vulnerable skin under one eye, and Geralt would not let anyone else do that.

"All gold. That's good, that's what I like to see. You can close them again now, sweetheart."

Geralt does. He sits still, allows himself to feel the warmth of the water and the ache of his arse, to breath in the scent of Jaskier, still beautifully tinged with arousal, and soap and the faint trace of woodsmoke from the fireplace. Jaskier's hands land on his shoulders, slick with soap, and the way they move around over his skin is half washing, half a massage, all what he needs.

"You are so tense." Thumbs dig into a knot where his shoulder meets his neck, and Geralt groans. "Always so tense, what am I going to do with you, darling witcher?"

Geralt barely listens, just lets Jaskier's voice wash over him, calm and soothing, now that he's beginning to tolerate to hear speech. Each touch on his skin feels so good, like peace, like comfort, like home, the same as Jaskier's scent, and he focuses on his breathing, slow and steady, filling his lungs with Jaskier, hoping some fragment of his bard will stay inside him even when he exhales.

He's not sure how long it takes until Jaskier deems his skin clean enough and moves to wash his hair, still talking, idle words falling from his lips as strong fingers rub at Geralt's scalp, combing through tangled pale strands until Geralt feels boneless. Between his legs, his cock is hardening again, but it doesn't feel urgent. It can wait.

A disappointed noise escapes him when Jaskier finally rinses the soap from his hair and declares him clean and ready to get out of the water.

"Hush," Jaskier soothes. "We'll go to bed next, sweetling, you do like that part."

Geralt grunts and allows himself to be nudged and prodded to his feet. Jaskier pats him dry with a towel and gives an amused look at his cock.

"Eager today, I see. So good for me you are."

Heat flares somewhere inside Geralt, and when Jaskier places the towel away, he doesn't need to further instructions. His feet take him to the bed on their own, and he lies down, on his belly, hips on the towel Jaskier has left there for this purpose. He may arch his back a little as he settles, and the tiniest catch in Jaskier's breath makes it well worth it.

"What a temptation you are, my darling witcher," Jaskier says as he slips out of his own clothes. "I'll take such good care of you, sweet thing."

Naked, he walks to the bed, stops to stand next to it. Geralt can feel his gaze, travelling up and down his body, and then a hand lands on his shoulder, firm and steady.

"I'm going to fuck you now, would you like that?"

Geralt manages an affirmative grunt, and Jaskier pats his shoulder. Then the lute-calloused fingers trail down his back, to his sore arse, and he knows the squeeze will come before it does, but it still makes him moan. Jaskier pats the reddened skin before the hand moves further down, to his thighs, gives him a nudge. Geralt spreads his legs.

"So good." Jaskier climbs into the bed, settles between his thighs, and the scent of chamomile is the only warning Geralt gets before two slick fingers slide into him again, as easy as if they'd never left him at all. "So good for me, so tight," Jaskier nearly purrs. "So ready, aren't you, darling?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course, because the fingers are already slipping out of him, and then the slick heat of Jaskier's cock touches his hole. Geralt grits his teeth and tries to relax, because this will hurt just the way he needs it to. Jaskier is not a small man, especially not where it counts, and—and—

All thoughts dissolve as Jaskier pushes in, slow but inexorable, so slick the oil is dripping down to Geralt's balls, almost tickling. He holds his breath, listens to Jaskier babbling incoherent praise, takes the pain into himself and lets it turn into pleasure, and then finally, finally, Jaskier's hips meet his sore buttocks, and the sound that escapes his lips is a whimper.

"It's all right," Jaskier tells him. "You're doing so good, sweetheart, it's all inside you now, all yours. Do you feel it?" He rocks his hips, just a little, and Geralt definitely feels it. "You're my good darling, so good, you take it so well."

Jaskier begins to move, slow, shallow thrusts at first, and Geralt buries his face into the mattress, grips the sheets with sweaty hands. The cock in him fills him to his limit, forces him to stop thinking, reduces him to nothing but a body, made to receive pleasure. He spreads his legs wider, cants his hips back, and Jaskier thrusts into him harder, hits the right spot with maddening accuracy.

"Take it," Jaskier whispers, his voice hoarse. "Take it, feel it, know that I am the only one—" He fucks Geralt roughly, almost brutally, hands gripping his waist so tight Geralt prays they will leave bruises. "There's no one else but me, only I know you, and I will take care of you, I will give you whatever you need, whatever you want, all I ever can—"

Geralt groans, so close already, the relentless shoves of Jaskier's hips rubbing his aching, dripping cock against the towel under him. He wants to touch himself, but he knows Jaskier can make him come like this, and it's so much more satisfying like that, if he waits. Jaskier's breaths are hot on his back, lips so close to the skin he can feel the occasional brush of them as the thick cock fills him again and again.

"My darling, my dearest, my sweet witcher, I'm yours, I will always be yours, give you all I have…"

He keeps talking, but Geralt can't hear it from the blood rushing in his ears. Each time Jaskier's hips meet his arse, pain shoots through him, mixing with the unbearable pleasure of being fucked, and he opens his mouth, tries to get enough air into his lungs, but instead, he's crying out, coming all over the towel, and Jaskier keeps fucking him right through it until there is nothing left but the overwhelming pleasure.

Afterwards, he's a little disappointed he misses Jaskier's orgasm, but he can feel the slickness of it inside him, dripping out of his well-fucked hole. Jaskier cleans him up with the soiled towel he'd had under his hips, slow, careful touches, and then shoves the towel into a heap on the floor before settling down beside him.

They lie there, face to face, bodies close.

"Good now?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. Jaskier kisses him, slow and sweet, and he can't remember how he survived the post-battle restlessness before the bard.

"Did you get your pay?" Jaskier asks.

"Hmm," Geralt says. He knows Jaskier understands.

"Good." Jaskier kisses him again, pulls the covers over them and holds him close. "Can you sleep?"

Geralt hums again. His arse is sore, both from the belt and from Jaskier's cock, and the heavy, deep satisfaction inside him is like honey.

"Good," Jaskier repeats. His voice is low and sleepy, and he bends his head down, nose brushing the hollow of Geralt's throat. "Darling witcher."

Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's hair, silky and a little sweaty and smelling faintly of sex and flowers. "My bard," he murmurs, but Jaskier is already asleep.

It doesn't matter. They both know it already. Jaskier is his, his life, his salvation, his strange little fragment of peace after a battle, and he couldn't be more thankful.


End file.
